


Devour

by teaaru



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Asthma, Choking, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-06-28 17:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19817173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaaru/pseuds/teaaru
Summary: SG Rogers is a young, upcoming creator who signed his first ever deal with renowned publishing house, Marvel Comics.Steve, however, is also a twinky, touch-starved asthmatic. And a horny mostly-still-a-virgin.What better way to celebrate his first comic's publication than going off with a, ehem, bang?





	1. Prologue

The first thing Steve sees is the bed.

It’s fucking huge, is what it is. It's the size of his bathroom and tiny kitchenette put together.

His first thought is _how can they even find fitted sheets for that monstrosity_.

His second, faintly hysterical, _say_ _bye bye to your virginity Rogers._

*

Steven Grant Rogers is fucking exhausted. He’s been running on fumes ever since his webcomic, _Howling Commandos_ , got signed for a publishing deal last month. It’s gratifying to know that quitting his cushy (stable, _secure_ ) graphic design job to pursue his dream of being a _comic book artist_ was finally paying off. 

Sort of. 

_Howling Commandos_ is Steve’s baby. Since day one, he’s been doing the writing, storyboard, illustration, color and the fucking _layout_ and _pagination_. Heck, he’s created his own goddamned _font_ for it.

Steve calls himself a perfectionist. (Sam and Nat have other names for him, starting with _stubborn asshole_ ending with _fuck, Rogers, don’t you know how to ask for help?_ )

They’re brilliantly talented people, but _Howlies_ is his baby and he can’t-- _will not_ ask for help. He doesn't want to. He has his pride to contend with. He can make it on his own, _goddamnit_.

But, God. He needed to churn out a new chapter every two weeks just to keep up with Marvel’s publishing schedule.

He’s been pulling all-nighters more often than not, dead on his feet at the bookshop he worked part-time in (chasing after his dreams is all well and good but it don’t put food on the table, his Ma says. Said).

When he finally submits the last chapter for the book, he just wants to fucking celebrate. It's still the middle of the week, and... he's not really the type to go to parties and do shots. Meet random strangers to give handjobs to, until his wrist is sore. He knows Sam's pretty busy with work. And Nat's... somewhere sunny and tropical, from their last video call, getting a really nice tan.

He snatches up his phone, going through the rest of his miserably short list of contacts... But he doesn't _want_ to party. Or get drunk. He wants to...

His free hand starts to amble its way south, libido suddenly perking up after months of ignorance. Steve lets out a harsh breath, making up his mind.

So.

He opens up his never-really-used Tinder and gets to swiping.

*

“Sorry ‘bout the mess.” He says, without sounding like he gives a shit about it.

“No, it’s fine.” Steve instantly pipes up, eyeing the rumpled bed with apprehension. "Really, I don't... mind."

Still, he— _my team calls me Sir, but for you, baby, it’s_ Brock— tidies up the hotel room, stuffing clothes into a large suitcase by the door. Steve sees a glimpse of his pressed army fatigues in the closet before Brock slides it shut. 

He’s still distracted, focused on the sharp lines of his uniform, when Brock sidles closer. 

“Vodka good?” He asked, already pushing a glass into Steve’s hand, a smile curling on his lips. He’s very... handsome. And he has a way of looking at Steve like he's _gorgeous_ , _baby--_

Steve very nearly drops his drink, remembering their very first conversation on video chat. 

“Yeah.” His own hands curl securely over the glass, before taking a fortifying drink. It’s—too sweet. He knows he’s making a face when Brock laughs, the sound of it starling. Like a gunshot. Or a car backfiring in the middle of the night. 

“Too strong?” There's a teasing sound in his voice, and Steve-- can't help but wrinkle his nose. 

“It’s just…” He glances at the hotel bar and sees the slim, white and blue can next to the vodka bottle—there’s an assortment of rumpled paper bags hiding the rest. “Haven’t had a Redbull mix since— university. Sorta getting flashbacks over here, can almost here my thesis adviser dressing me down… ” 

Steve mimics the gruff, all too strict tone of Professor Philips. " _Damnit, Rogers_ _, I thought you were focusing on Neo-classical Art not this modernist bull shit._ "

He wants to wince at how _young_ he sounds, letting his mouth run away. It’s been a few years since graduation but he could still pass for a student. With flying colors, cause he's short, skinny and can't seem to put on any weight despite the exercise and the protein shakes. He's the very definition of a _twink_ , he knows that. And of-fucking-course he likes (well, fantasizes about) men that are just a little bit older. Bigger. Stronger.

And this Brock guy is at least a decade older, if his Tinder profile was to be believed. He's one of Steve's wet dreams come to life.

So, he's fully expecting Brock to laugh at how awkward he is. How young, or inexperienced. 

But Brock only takes a hearty gulp of his own drink, dark eyes unashamedly dragging down Steve’s body. "Drink up, then." His little smile is growing teeth. "We'll need all the energy we can get.”

And just like that, Steve’s stopped thinking about their age. Or about anything at all, feeling pinned down by Brock’s sharp gaze. He’s nearly burning with it. Maybe the vodka was _too strong_ , or, there’s something in it—

“Sit.” Brocks nods at the couch facing the floor to ceiling windows, looking out at lights twinkling in the dark. It’s next to the stupidly huge bed. 

Steve sits.  
  
*

He runs out of likes within the hour, which is, apparently a _thing_ now on Tinder. So he has to wait for a few guys to match with his skinny blonde ass.

There’s… huh. Surprisingly, quite a few to choose from.

It's all thanks to Darcy, his co-worker at the book store. She'd seen the terrible selfies he was going to use over his shoulder and quickly took matters in her own hands. 

The candid photo of him in a tank top and booty shorts he’d been dared to wear at last year's Pride march had his ass looking _like a ripe Georgia peach, anyone would wanna take a_ bite _._ (Her exact words, not his _._ ) 

He's never really gotten the hang of dating (or hooking up, whatever) both online and offline. The guys who message him first are always just a bit too pushy, or demanding, or too abrupt-- but that's when he sees one of his matches, a brunet in army fatigues, jacked enough that it shows, even through the baggy camo. He swipes through his photos, sees that--

Brock, 38, Special Ops is just a kilometer away and _back stateside for a week, thank me for my service_?

It's just the horrible sort of joke that punches a laugh right out of Steve. 

And gives him the courage to message first.

_I pledge allegiance..._

*

Steve's quickly dwindling courage finds him here, in Brock’s hotel room, nursing a third (fourth?) glass of vodka + Redbull mix and trying not to rub his thighs together every time their eyes meet. He’s not quite sure if it's the alcohol, or if he's just desperately horny. But. It's-- the attention is. Nice. 

There’s not much to hide in the skinny jeans he’s wearing.

Brock’s talking about being in the Army after Steve's curiosity gets the better of him. He's skirting around the details of where he’s been, and what his work entails. But he takes notices of Steve’s anatomical heart tattoo peeking out under his sleeve, and says he’s been thinking about touching up his chest piece…

When he gets to talking about what the tattoo represents, the number of people he’s _killed_ , it jolts Steve right out of his alcohol and lust induced haze. 

“What,” He squeaked, some of his drink sloshing over his thigh, and he jumps at the sensation. “Over _fifty_? _People_?”

“Bad ones.” He corrects— a stubborn jut to his jaw. “ _Terrorists_ , they're the ones blowing up innocent kids—“

Brock’s expression becomes a little pinched. He looks away from Steve, brows creasing. “Sorry. It’s not— polite conversation—“ And he sounds like he’s reading off a well-rehearsed script, a sour look on his face. "What am I doing, saying that to a kid like you--" He rubs a tanned hand over his face, mouth in a straight line. 

“No— don't.” Steve— God, help him— It’s the first time he’s seen anything other than smooth confidence on Brock’s face, and—he’s stupidly charmed. Even if Brock’s killed a lot of people, _(terrorists_ , _bad people_ ) and has the goddamned proof inked on his skin. 

“It’s the nature of your job.” He’s saving lives, doing what Steve knows he couldn’t. “I wanted to enlist, you know?” He waves at his own body. "Couldn't. Tried a few more times before I took the hint." That, and his ma's health started to deteriorate. Between the lives of random, nameless Americans and his own ma, he knows which one he's going to pick. He's selfish, like that. 

He slowly drains his drink, and looks up at Brock, feeling less and less like himself. ( _Thank fuck for vodka_ , he thinks, head swimming, a little feverish.) 

“Don’t apologize for it.” Steve murmured quietly, leaning closer, fingers stroking Brock's chest, the ink curling over his collarbone. “Can I ... will you show me?” 

And Brock-- he looks up at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, something falling away from his eyes. If he thought Brock was looking at him with _want_ before, this is—something else. There’s something dark and starving in his eyes that wants to swallow him whole, bones and all

“Kneel,” he said, voice gruff. “Then we’ll talk.”

Brock leans back into the sofa, hungry eyes challenging Steve as he spread his thighs. Will you? Won’t you?

And it’s a matador flag to Steve’s raging bull.

He’s never backed down from anything yet and he’s not about to start now.

Steve kneels.

*

Brock, 38, Special Ops is _funny_. 

It only takes them a messages on Tinder, ribbing each other, before the guy asks for his number for a video chat.

Steve is flushed when answers the call, awkwardly fiddling with his floppy bangs. He’s never-- tried to meet up with anyone off Tinder. Or anywhere. Just for sex. So he's... understandably, a little nervous. 

But Brock, 38, is also blisteringly _hot_ , once the video connects.

His lips are curled into a tiny smirk, one hand running through the dark, regulation hair cut. Mussing it up a bit. He doesn’t look as forbidding from his photos. And when he opens his mouth, his voice is a little scratchy, like he’s been smoking too much, or screaming at others.

_“Hey gorgeous."_

He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he meets this man.

“It’s Steve.” He points out, tone stubborn but his cheeks are darkening even more.

 _“You’re gorgeous, baby_. _”_ His eyes crinkle a little at corners, and the nickname makes Steve bite his lips, fantasize about Brock in bed. _“Don’t deny it_.” 

“Thank you.” He said quietly, looking away from the screen, unable to stop himself from smiling. Geez. “You—you’re not so bad yourself.”

Brock barks out a laugh, _he’s the gorgeous one_ , jaw stubbled and skin golden.

 _“And so polite, too._ ” Even through the screen, he’s reading Steve like a fucking book, sees the _want_ in his half-lidded eyes, the bitten lips. _“Tell you what, baby, let me give you my hotel’s address…”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes more ill-advised decisions with Brock, 38, Special Ops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the tags come into play. If you would like to skip, there is a brief summary at the end.

_Steve kneels_.

Like a marionette cut off his strings, knees harshly knocking against Brock’s carpeted floor. He already feels the bruises just underneath his skin, waiting to blossom.

Steve looks up at Brock through his lashes, wondering what the older man is seeing when he curses under his breath. He can’t help but smile a little up at him. _You thought I wasn’t going to do it? Eat your heart out, Brock Rumlow._

The older man barks out a laugh, fingers threading through Steve’s hair. And he leans into the touch, lips curling up even more. He knows he’s being— unusually forward. Tactile. _Affectionate_. When he’s normally twenty hissy alley cats stuffed into a burlap sack ( _thanks for that, Sam_ ).

But. Brock doesn’t know that. They’re _strangers_. It’s… a little liberating, to not act like himself for a while.

He’s not the sickly Rogers kid here, with chip on his shoulder and more anger than he knows what to do with.

He’s just… Steve.

“So?” Steve licks his lips, blinking slowly up at Brock as he continues to rub against his (large, rough) hand like a particularly finicky feline.

“I remember something about being shown some tattoos…” He leers up at Brock, eyeing the flash of ink curling up his collarbone and—

Brock laughs again, eyes crinkling more at the corners. He’s fucking _delighted_.

He gives Steve’s hair a light tug before letting go completely, so he can pull his shirt up and away, letting it fall somewhere behind them.

Steve’s eyes light up, tracing the whirls and patterns that extend from Brock’s chest down to his navel. Stylized crossbones splashed across his right pectoral, with stripes of red, white and blue around his rib cage.

Underneath it all, there’s a fucking _massive_ kraken in the color of dried blood, countless tentacles curling through the crossbones and the American flag. Like a monster dragging down a ship wreck.

It’s— striking, that’s for sure. Unsettling in its beauty.

The kraken’s tentacles look like it’s _moving_ , every time Steve looks a little too closely.

Steve doesn’t even notice how close he’s shuffled forward, until the tip of his nose is practically bumping across Brock’s stomach, distracted by his tattoos. Brock’s hand finds themselves in his hair again, fingers stroking and tugging in intervals. But he hasn’t said anything since he’s asked Steve to _kneel,_ as if he’s waiting for…

Oh. “It’s beautiful.” Steve says, looking up at him, opting not to say anything about the tentacles roiling over Brock’s skin, and how it makes him feel a little dizzy.

 _Nauseous_.

They look like they’re about to burst out of Brock’s stomach and devour him as well. But maybe that’s just the alcohol settling strangely in his gut.

Brock smiles, _pleased_ , and tugs at Steve’s hair a little more insistently— while his free hand is rubbing at himself through his jeans. When did he pop the button open? Is he— Steve swallows down a nervouslaugh, he’s the real howling _commando_ , here. Jesus.

And apparently, the blood-red tentacles extend well past his stomach, curling over his hips and the trimmed base of his—

“You did say you wanted to see the tattoos.” He says, voice low as he continues to idly play with Steve’s hair, while he’s fisting his—

“Yeah.” Steve croaks out, eyeing the shape of Brock’s _dick_ , ready to spring from his open zip.

“And the rest of it…” Brock grins again, stomach muscles flexing as he works his jeans further down without standing. “You gotta open your mouth for me, baby.”

And it’s the same _fucking_ tone. The red matador flag, the teasing _challenge_ in his voice that gets to Steve. _Will you? Won’t you? Course you won't, Steve..._

As soon as Brock gets out his dick, Steve springs forward, swallowing down as much as he can. It’s not even _half_ , but Brock’s making that _pleased_ sound again, both hands buried in his blond hair.

 _We haven’t even kissed yet_ , he thinks a little hysterically _,_ drool escaping the corners of his lips as he tries to relax his jaw. _But I know how his cock tastes_.

Brock tastes overwhelmingly _soapy_ , like he’s aggressively scrubbed his bits out before Steve came over. It’s still a step up from the last time he’s given a blow job. At least Brock’s _showered_.

He’s tuned out the soft muttering from the older man: a low, continuous stream of _yeah, gorgeous, so good for me, baby, you like that?_ And he continues to make the appropriate noises for it, too focused on catching his breath and ignoring the ache in mouth, that he doesn’t even notice Brock change his tune to _yeah, you’re gagging for this, fucking slut, gonna fuck your mouth, baby, I’m sure you can take it—_

The only warning he gets is Brock’s hands tightening in his hair, before his head is shoved down to meet the snap of Brock’s hips.

His throat spasms around Brock, trying to get used to the unyielding weight of him. He’s rewarded with that pleased sound again, and Brock fucks into his mouth again, harder. _Fuck, Steve, you’re perfect, take it—_

Steve’s trying to keep up, tries to inhale through his nose, relax his mouth and ignore his gag reflex— But he’s— He’s never—

He screws his eyes shut, chest constricting as he tries to _breathe_ cause he can’t— he’s trying to push away, make him slow down—

But rock is unrelenting, choking off Steve’s protests with a dick in his mouth and a strong hand round his throat. _Baby, can feel my cock down your throat —_

Steve gags around Brock, fingers scratching at the hand around his neck. That finally breaks Brock’s single minded focus, his pace stuttering as he realizes how _pale_ Steve looks.

Teary, bloodshot eyes flash open and Steve finally pushes away, crumpling to the floor. He retches violently, the vodka coming back up to make a mess of Brock’s hotel room carpet. He’s trying to catch his breath when his chest seizes up in a more familiar way. There’s nothing blocking his throat, but it feels _bruised_ to hell and back, and he can’t _breathe_ , the air’s all gone from the room—

His vision is spotty, and the last thing he hears is Brock shouting at his cellphone before losing consciousness.

“…I don’t care if you’re balls deep in the Secretary of State…. blond kid’s dying in my hotel room…. need a medic… Fuck you too, Barnes, I swear to fucking God get your bitchy ass up to this floor or you’d better be prepared to help me hide the body!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brock starts to deep-throat Steve thinking he has his consent. Steve vomits and has an asthma attack, where he passes out. There's some name calling too. 
> 
> Sorry for the spotty medical know how. But ta-dah, I promise more Buck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wakes up in bed. There's someone else with him.

Steveslowly comes to, sprawled over a soft bed. There’s a pressure on the side of his neck— fingers, gently pressing in against his pulse—

He jolts upright, arms swinging out as he scrambles away. There’s a quiet grunt of pain and a soft apology somewhere to his left. “Sorry—you’re safe— “

It’s not Rumlow. At least, it’s not his voice.

Huddled against the headboard, he finally opens his eyes. He’s still in Rumlow’s hotel room, but it’s empty except for him and… a new guy.

New guy has long, dark hair curling over his shoulders. The left sleeve of his jacket is empty, but there’s something bulky hidden underneath it. When he brushes his hair out of his eyes, they’re a piercingly clear blue. And they’re trained right on him

Steve’s first thought, _oh no he’s hot_.

His second: “Where’s my shirt?” He grumbled, voice rough as he wrapped his arms around his bare chest. Jesus Christ, Rogers, the fuck you’ve got yourself into now?

Hot new guy’s lips pull into a small frown. “Uh—“ He looks around Rumlow’s hotel room before his frown deepens— and pulls off his own jacket to hand over to Steve. His left arm his bandaged tightly, pressed up against his chest in a sling.  
  
“Was dirty. Washed it.” He tipped his head over at the ensuite bathroom. “Still drying. Sorry.”

Steve accepts the jacket, practicality winning over his hesitation. The jacket is loose on hot guy, but Steve’s practically swimming in it, having toroll up the sleeves a few times. But it’s warm and soft. Worn around the edges. Like hot new guy, who’s nervously picking at hem of his red henley. Steve decides then and there, he may never return this jacket.

“… So.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. His throat is still sore, and he stops himself from touching the likely-bruised skin. “Rumlow?”

“Told him to leave.” His voice is tight with— annoyance? Anger?

Steve nods slowly, eyes catching at the damp spot by the couch. Someone’s cleaned up his vomit, at least. “And you’re…” He swallows thickly, looks at new guy straight on. “Cleaning up his mess?”

New guy looks at him sharply— before quickly looking away. Unnerved. “No— I’m— a medic. Same unit.” His lips do a weird half-smile.“Used to be. A medic.”

Steve continues to look at him— the medic now, instead of hot new guy. Or hot guy who-used-to-be-a-medic.

“I’m Steve.”

The medic just looks at him in confusion, brows crinkled together. ( _Not_ adorably.)

“That’s my name.” Steve says slowly, as if talking to a younger child. Even if he’s the one swaddled in a jacket three times his size. “What’s yours?”

Hot medic flushes darkly, shoulders hunching over. Like he wants to hide in his clothes. No wonder the jacket was a size bigger. Steve feels a little guilty for teasing him. Just a little.

“Ah Barnes— Ja— Bucky.” Hot— _Bucky_ looks up at Steve with a rueful smile curling his lips. “Call me Bucky.”

Hot medic instantly turns into _adorable_ medic in the time it took for Bucky to smile at Steve. _Focus_ , Rogers. Now’s not the time to get distracted by scruffy men even though he looks _cute_ and smells _amazing_.

“Bucky.” He tests the name out in his mouth, before nodding. “Why are you here?”

“Rumlow called me up.” The name twists in his mouth. “I’m staying two floors down and— he said he needed help.” He glances over at Steve, eyes dragging over the dark bruising over his throat. “The severe contusions to your trachea and the blockage —“

Bucky looked away from his throat, brows creasing. “You couldn’t breathe. Didn’t know why, I was doing chest compressions when I thought— to look at your bag.” He gestured at the leather satchel on the bedside table, and the inhaler on top of it. “I was tracking your pulse when you woke up.”

No wonder he can taste the familiar bitterness of medicine in the back of his throat. Well, that and the vomit.

“Right.” Steve gives in to temptation and gently presses his fingers over his throat, the ghost of Rumlow’s hands aching in reminder.

“Listen, Steve.” His voice is soft, a little apprehensive, but catches Steve’s gaze head on and doesn’t let go. “If you want to file a case against him, I’ll testify on your—“

“What?” His hand drops to his lap, from where he’s been tracing his throat. Steve looks at Bucky like he’s lost his mind. “Why would I—“

“Did you tell him to..." Bucky's gaze lands on Steve's neck, before frowning and looking away. "Or ask if he should -- be rougher?"  
  
Steve crosses his arms over his chest, looking away from him. Put it that way, it seems much worse than it is. Was. It's fine. He's _fine_. 

“We were— things just got out of hand.” And he managed to push him away. More or less. “I’m _fine_.”

Bucky fell silent, looking at Steve like he was _impossible_. "But you should--"

"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't do! _"_ Steve nearly shouts. He can feel the other man's eyes dragging on the marks on his skin. It must look horrible. He knows the way his skin bruises easily. "Why do you even care?" _Fuck_ this guy, trying to put words into his mouth. He's not a fucking _victim._

"I just wanted to help..." 

"Well I don't _need_ it, alright?" He snaps, quickly sitting up and away from where Bucky was hovering at his bedside. "I can take care of myself." 

Steve grabs his bag from the bedside table before standing up on wobbly feet. He can see Bucky already trying to come closer and help, but it only makes him more angry. He gives Bucky one last glare before quickly leaving the hotel room. He nearly runs to the end of the hallway, impatiently jamming the down button for the elevator. 

_Fucking shitshow_ _, Rogers_. 

The elevator comes quickly-- and he only notices in the mirrors inside the elevator that he's still wearing Bucky's jacket.

He'll find a way to return it. In the future.

Somehow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussions of dubious consent and possible litigation.


End file.
